Page 32 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“A while,” she said.

“How long,” he repeated, softer and more dangerous.

“A few weeks.”

I watched Reaper absorb it without coming apart. That’s his trick. He saves the coming apart for later, in a place no one can see.

Cross broke the silence with a pen already in his hand. “Tell me every incident you remember, in order. Dates if you can. Times if you can’t. Anything left at the shop, at home, anywhere in between.”

Briar slid her tote onto the counter and set down three clear evidence bags, each labeled with her too-neat handwriting. She nodded at me. “We’ve got the note, felt from the bell, stem cut sample. And…” She leaned over, reached under the register lip, and plucked something from the shadow with tweezers. “And the petal we found this morning.”

Bones leaned his crowbar against his shoulder like it was a cigarette. “You want doors checked or faces broken first?”

“Doors,” I said. “No noise. Not yet.”

Reaper moved to the note, eyes skimming the lines. His face didn’t change. He looked at the rose like it had insulted his mother and then at the bell over the door. “Felt.”

Briar flicked the bag. “He muffled the chime.”

“So, he knew where to reach,” Reaper said.

“Or he learned fast,” I said, scanning the ceiling corners, the camera angles, the blind spots. I pointed at the incense shelf, the black corner above it. “Dead zone. Someone could tuck there if you’re not looking up.”

Selene’s teeth caught her lower lip for half a second. I didn’t like that I noticed. I liked even less that she noticed me noticing.

Cross was already typing notes on his phone. “Camera feed?”

Selene exhaled. “Motion alerts didn’t trigger.”

“Because he didn’t cross their fields,” I said. “Or he covered the IR. Or he spoofed them.”

Briar snorted. “The Quarter’s not exactly Silicon Valley.”

“Don’t underestimate obsession,” Cross said. “It learns.”

Reaper nodded once. “Bones. Back door, bathroom window, roof access. Then you sit on the alley for an hour. No heroics.”

Bones thumped the crowbar against his shoulder. “Copy.”

“Cross,” Reaper went on, “pull street-facing footage from neighboring shops, bars, the church across the way. I don’t care if you have to trade them half a bottle of Angel’s Envy and a tax deduction. I want the last forty-eight hours. Get plates. Faces. Shoes.”

“On it.” Cross was already dialing.

Reaper looked at Briar. “You. With Selene. You don’t leave her shadow.”

“You say that like it’s a punishment,” Briar said, but there was a crack under the bravado.

Finally, Reaper turned to me. “You're on point. You already are. I want a pattern. I want a name.”

I didn’t nod. It was already true.

I put on gloves. Something I learned a long time ago: nothing ruins evidence like a protective instinct with bare hands. I slid the note into a fresh sleeve. The paper wasn’t cheap. Heavy. Cotton rag. The kind of stock uptown boutiques use when they’re pretending not to bleed money. No watermark. No imprint. Smelled faintly of rose and… nothing. Whoever wrote it kept their hands clean.

The rose was cut at an angle, thorns trimmed with care. The base of the stem was damp without a vase. Recently cut. The petal Briar had found under the register lip? Fresh. Which told me he’d placed the rose first. Then tucked the petal out of sight like a signature. Or a promise.

I checked the bell mount. Clean except for the faintest trace of adhesive where the felt had stuck. Industrial, not craft glue. Stronger.

The door frame? Fingerprint dust would have to wait for someone we could trust. In the meantime, I checked for disturbance in the paint lip where a magnet might’ve been taped for a sensor bypass. Nothing obvious. The bolt plates showed normal wear. No fresh pry marks.